


games we play

by LadyTiferet, poziomeczka



Series: knuckledusters au [1]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, gangster au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTiferet/pseuds/LadyTiferet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/pseuds/poziomeczka





	games we play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tracy7307](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracy7307/gifts).



He doesn't have it in him. He doesn't have the guts to intimidate, threaten, break fingers or necks when necessary. He's got no stomach for it, for the blood and the sweat and the filth. Neither Guern nor Lutorius will ever tire of telling him so. Even Liathan whom Esca had seen strangle a man with his bare hands, goes to all the lengths he can think of to make sure that Esca knows this. Probably because he cares enough to take the trouble. It's as if they all want to make sure he understands, as if Esca's a little soft in the head and they need to repeat it slowly for the truth to sink in. The evident truth that Esca stubbornly refuses to acknowledge, perhaps out of spite, perhaps not. That is how it must look in their wary Mediterranean eyes. A fool's errand. 

Esca can't really blame them, doesn't resent them for it. He knows how he must look like. His biker jacket looks like he might have nicked it from his older brother, slipping from his shoulders when he forgets to roll them, to shrug it back onto himself. Black ink climbs up his forearms to coil in thick ornamental swirls around the ropey muscles of his arms. He'd look less out of place queueing up for a heavy metal band gig than here. And yet here he is, like some sort misguided groupie of aspiring delinquents. There are those that indulge him even, as one might a kitten that peed on the carpet and now is mewling apologetically for it, like he could be picked up by the scruff of his neck and put somewhere where he, according to them, ought to be. He guesses that is how Marcus's inner circle sees him most of the time, a stray little mongrel. Granted, most of Marcus's men are not the brightest crayons in the box. Marcus's men are loyal, not a shadow of a doubt about it, but few of them are clever.   
In all frankness, that was exactly what Esca had told him the first time they've met, which did end up with Marcus shoving him in the precise direction of the door he came in through.

Something must have stuck however, like a brick flying through the window if Esca's subtlety (of lack thereof) was anything to go by, for he witnessed Marcus's ever-present entourage slowly ebb away. Marcus gradually becoming more selective of who he rubbed shoulders with. Not that he rubbed shoulders with Esca, even in the most figurative manner of speaking. Yet in the end, if somewhat begrudgingly, he was allowed to stay.   
He knew that it was more than just vaguely fond exasperation that assured his position, as lowly as it was. Perceptive and agile, Esca could break and enter with frightening accuracy and, above all he was smart, smart enough for the likes of Marcus and Liathan to rather have him by their side than on someone else's. 

It's out of the corner of his eye that he catches it, Marcus's huge hand circling Connor's biceps, squeezing gently enough not to bruise, strongly enough to allow no room for argument, swallowing it whole as he tugs the younger man in, an unmistakable sign. And Esca follows as if he himself was the one pulled, a slowly sweating bottle of Miller left in his wake. Had he been looking for excuses he'd blame it on the alcohol but Esca knows himself too well to believe his own lies. 

They hear him approach, they must, if the clicking noise of his is anything even remotely alike to what it sounds like to his own ears. He half-hopes it's a shared line of coke or some unfinished business. He could play it off then, take a piss, fucking go like every part of him that's still ridden by any remnants of common sense screams at him. He presses himself against the cool tiles instead, listening to Connor's slick lips pop obscenely over the crown of Marcus's cock. The door is thrown, wide open and Esca wonders, for an insane, uncomprehending moment if it's a dare. It has to be. He risks a glance, feeling like a schoolboy hiding from a scolding, peeking out from his remote corner onto the sleek floor of the hallway. Eyes burning bright, his lower lip worried between his teeth.

Connor's bristled, jet black hair sticks out from between Marcus's thick, scarred fingers like freshly cut grass, his head moving obediently as he works himself over Marcus's dick, moans and slurps around it. Small choked noises struggling out of his throat when Marcus's hips give a forceful snap, hands scrambling for purchase in the man's white t-shirt. Esca can't find it in himself to watch him. He chooses to watch Marcus instead, the wide expanse of his clothed chest, his nipples dark and drawn tight over the stretched material. His eyes are heavy-lidded but not unfocused as he looks back at Esca, a smirk sharpening his slack mouth, slipping in place, like he's expected Esca here, like he's won and Esca's breath hitches, like it can make it neither in or out, like it has been crushed out of him by . 

Marcus's nostrils flare as the pace of his hips picks up rapidly, thrusting in earnest now, his hands cradling Connor's face, thumbs stroking down the other's hollowing cheeks, too hard for a caress and Esca wonders whether Marcus would have been the same, so casually cruel, had it been him scrambling on his knees on the sickly green bathroom floor instead, shirt pulled around his neck like a noose.

He holds Connor's head in place as he comes, spilling down his throat with a grunt, his whole body tensing, muscles in his abdomen contracting and trembling. 

Esca doesn't make a beeline for the door the second it's over, the second he hears Marcus shove Connor off his cock. He's not stupid enough to bolt. It is Connor that does it in the end, out of the two of them, looking around, flushed to the tips of his thick hair and wiping his mouth with the back oh his hand. Esca stands by the piss-stained urinals as if he hasn't just watched Marcus Aquila got off with one of his foot soldiers. He looks wide-eyed, eerie and false even to his own reflection. Marcus's footsteps are lazy and relaxed on the tiled floor as he leaves the cubicle. 

"And now you can't look me in the eye" Marcus says and Esca's head shoots up, sees Marcus in the mirror, both of their faces pallid in the buzzing sleekly fluorescent light of the lamp above. His expression isn't mocking, just considering, as if Esca is a mildly interesting programme on a Sunday afternoon. 

"Connor, really?" Esca bounces back, forcing his voice into easy incredulity or something he really hopes is exactly that. "He's a right twat, you said so yerself"

Marcus huffs out a laugh, one of those that could pass as anything but friendly.

"If my well-being is such a concern of yours, then perhaps you should tend to it in person next time" 

The straight face fails him, a muscle in his cheek twitching in blatant betrayal as Marcus throws him an amused look before leaving, door shutting soundly behind him.


End file.
